


Whiskey and Breath

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late night out; an impromptu moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey and Breath

Misery is heavy, the way it sits precariously balanced in the air between two people. It’s the space between eyes and nose and lips, the yearning for contact, for a moment of connection when everything else stops mattering, and the world is a comfortable place to curl in repose.

Foreheads pressed together is more intimate than fucking; Marco thinks of it more than he should, especially where certain people are concerned.

Jean is talking about nothing, his mouth moving as he tells Marco why everything isn’t good enough for the two of them, why they’re going to ditch this shitty place.

For the “two of them”—it used to just be why Trost was too shitty to stay in for Jean when Marco first moved there.

Marco smiles a little, nodding when he’s supposed to, nursing a glass of whiskey that Jean had grinned at him for ordering, a hint of a challenge on his face.

Marco takes his challenges slow, drinks it like the poison they are—the way Jean’s words bore into his brain, how they fill the air, disguised as ordinary conversation by that strange sardonic sense of humor that Marco has come to know all too well.

“Fuck this place,” Jean says suddenly, raising an eyebrow at Marco as he downs the free shot the bartender gave him. Apparently, the bartender is from Trost—a fact that Marco overheard before—but Jean claimed it’s because he’s such a generous customer. “Let’s get out of here. It’s dead.”

Marco follows him out the door into the cold. The chill is bone deep in the dead of winter, and everything on the street is still.

It’s late. At least three a.m., and they are currently those bad people that Marco’s mother always warned him to avoid.

Jean’s got his hands stuck deep into his jacket pockets as he walks quickly, fisted, shoulders hunched.

“Where are we going?” Marco asks sleepily as he follows, stifling a yawn. Jean’s drank twice as much as he has, but not showing it.

“Dunno,” Jean replies shortly, finally sounding a little drunk.

Marco has to jog slightly to catch up, and he eyes Jean warily. “Well, it’s really cold, so…”

Jean stops abruptly to look at Marco, spinning on his heel. “Do you actually listen to all the shit I say?” he asks suddenly, his eyes tired and his mouth down-turned.

Marco blinks, tilting his head to the side. “You’re my best friend,” he blurts, being honest. “So… yes?”

Jean just stares, then shakes his head. “You never say anything,” he replies. “But you look at me a lot.”

Marco laughs nervously, shoving his hands into his own pockets now and taking two steps back. “Um,” he says hesitantly, “well, you talk a lot.”

By the time Jean has him pressed against the building behind them, Marco’s breath has already caught in his throat. He can’t speak, he can’t breathe, he can’t even move away—doesn’t want to.

Jean is suddenly silent, uncharacteristically intense. He’s never emotional. Always angry, always full of vitriol or other types of passion that spring from places Marco distrusts.

“What are you doing?” Marco manages to croak in a whisper.

Jean’s never been one for social decorum—though it’s not as if there’s anyone watching them in the middle of the night on the street—and he slowly falls to his knees, pulling Marco with him.

Marco goes willingly, practically melting. Jean’s drunk on whiskey, and Marco’s drunk on the moment, on the space between them as Jean’s warm thighs settle maddeningly over his knees.

The building behind him is hard, the sidewalk is hard, and Marco finally finds his breath.

“Jean,” he gasps, trying to push away the warm feeling that immediately fills him, “what are you—”

He stops speaking with a gasp, but it’s because he can practically taste the whiskey as Jean breathes hard and presses his forehead against Marco, closing the space.

“This place is too shitty,” he whispers, sliding one hand against Marco’s shoulder blades and the other around his waist, as if trying to block out the hard, cold world that exists outside this moment. “It’s too shitty for us, so let’s go away, just like we talked about.”

Marco nods, not pulling away. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, his hand settling tentatively on Jean’s thigh.

There’s no answer. They remain there in the cold, Jean’s forehead pressed against Marco’s, until he finally nods a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, before finally tilting his head and kissing Marco softly on the mouth.

The sun is starting to rise, and Marco sighs as if slipping into bed after a long, dark night.


End file.
